Davy Jones Ain't Got Nothing On Us
by brownpaperbags
Summary: Ok, so my first try wouldn't let me post new chapters. Here is try #2. Dean finds himself suddenly ill for no apparent reason. Why are all the locals drowning? And will the Winchester brothers figure it out before its too late for Dean? Find out as the men go up against a foe more powerful than they realize and more devious then they know. READ AND REVIEW!
1. Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives

**Author's Note: **_Hey everyone, I am trying my hand at a Supernatural fanfic and its my first one. To all of my faithful readers you know that I need reviews more than water so kindly drop a few. To any new readers the same idea goes for you because they are key to my motivation to write, so, if you like what you read then tell me and I'll continue. Hope you enjoy! Thanks!_

Something was wrong with Dean. Of course, if Sam Winchester had a nickel for every time that thought had entered his head over the years he and his brother might not have to commit credit card fraud as often as they did. Even with this admission, however, Sam couldn't help feeling that this time Dean's moodiness and general withdrawal had more to it than simple Hunter's Syndrome.

Hell was always a possibility, of course. Dean had only recently informed him that he remembered the tortures he went through in the pit, despite his earlier assurances that his time there was a giant blank. The notion of his brother being ripped into over and over again made Sam sick to his stomach and he wondered what torture like that did to a man on the inside. Dean had made a big show of waving his ordeal off like it was no big thing, but Sam heard his agonized mutterings at night and had even woken up once or twice to the sound of his brother's screams.

Not that he'd ever mention this to his older brother. Dean wasn't exactly keen on the subject and if he ever learned that Sam had overheard him in his nightmares it was possible that the man would shut down entirely. His brother had a keep-it-to-yourself mentality in regards to anything even vaguely requiring some emotional commitment and Sam had learned the hard way that pressuring him into talking got him nothing but weary glances and sullen silence. And blasting music that made him want to claw his eyes out.

Even with Sam's new understanding of his brother's psyche there was something extremely off with Dean's behavior and he didn't really believe it had anything to do with Hell. No, this was something different. Something worse.

It started, he supposed, when they had traveled to the little plot of rural heaven called Harrison, Arkansas. The little town was no different than any of the other numerous havens they had frequented in their time together. The same plethora of eclectic townsfolk, the same mom and pop stores on every corner, the same little town square that held quaint events like line dancing tournaments and the town's yearly Crawdad Festival. And, if one were to ask Dean, the same diners serving the same cheeseburger and pie combo. Utter bliss.

Of course, not all was well in rural suburbia. If it was they wouldn't be there, slumming it up with the locals and sleeping in hard motel beds that Sam dimly suspected were infested with fleas. There had been five deaths in the past two weeks, which wasn't entirely odd, but each of them had been from drowning in the nearby Buffalo River.

According to locals the river wasn't horribly treacherous unless it's current was fueled by the numerous rainstorms that hit the area during the spring months. In fact, if one retired doctor named Chester Barkins could be believed, there was a spirit of an old miner that protected the children who frequented the river's sandy banks from the dangers of abandoned mineshafts and copperhead snakes.

A spirit was exactly what the Winchester brothers didn't want, especially if the spook had died in a mineshaft. It would be a bit unrealistic for them to think that they could salt and burn the bones when they rested beneath miles of rock and were blanketed by the dark, cold waters of the Buffalo. In their brief time there, however, they had not found any evidence that even vaguely suggested a haunting and as their time there lengthened both brothers found themselves nearly pulling their hair out in frustration.

Even Bobby, their trusted albeit surly mentor, couldn't come up with a logical explanation for the recent deaths. Of course, sitting still had never gone over well with Dean. He was a man of action and always had been, though Sam suspected that his brother wanted something to do only so he could keep his mind off other, less pleasant aspects of his life. Whenever Dean remained stagnant for too long he started drinking and a drinking Dean was never a good Dean, though he would argue differently.

"You bitch too much, Sammy," he would say. Or Sam's personal favorite: "Must be your time of the month, Sammy. Quit nagging like a suppressed housewife and grow a pair."

Sam grimaced as he sipped his coffee, watching his brother from across the table in the dingy little dive called Neighborhood Diner. Dean was munching away on his cheeseburger, making little mewling sounds of pleasure as he stuffed a large portion of the sandwich into his mouth and tore it off with his teeth. He caught his brother looking and immediately stopped chewing, seemingly unaware of the shred of lettuce that clung desperately to the side of his lips.

"Wha," he asked, mouth full of food.

"Nice," Sam sighed. "Didn't Dad ever teach you to chew with your mouth closed?"

"I wasn't chewing," Dean replied as he swallowed the gob of food. "I was talking. There's a difference. Besides, you were the one looking at me funny while I was trying to eat."

"Dean," Sam grimaced. "You don't eat, you inhale."

"Thanks, Dr. Phil," Dean muttered, looking down at his half eaten pile of food with slight disdain. "You ruined my burger, Sammy. What kind of bastard ruins another man's burger?"

Sam rolled his eyes and picked absently at the Cobb salad that Sally the Waitress had brought him. He liked Sally, if only for her ability to withstand Dean's rugged charm and corny pickup lines. Sam had almost keeled over with embarrassment at his brother's latest addition to his ever-growing repertoire.

"If you were a McDonald's hamburger," he had said with a sultry smile. "You'd be called the McGorgeous."

"Honey," she had replied in her sweet Southern twang. "I've got a husband at home with a beer belly and two kids who think their God's gift to the world. I'm a limited edition sandwich that will be out of your mind the second you walk out that door. I'll give you points for originality though. Now, what can I get you?"

Dean went back to his burger and chili cheese fries with the gusto of a dying man. Obviously, Sam had not ruined his brother's meal in the slightest. The younger Winchester continued to watch the eldest and couldn't help but feel the stirrings of worry in his belly at what he saw there.

Dean's eyes were shadowed, even more than usual and though Sam knew that a hunter lives on little sleep his brother had been burning the midnight oil a bit too much for his liking the past few days. It seemed like the older man had lost weight though how he could have possibly managed that feat Sam would never know. The thing that concerned Sam most about this little detail was that his brother didn't exactly have any weight he could afford. He was naturally small and though he was strong for his stature Dean wasn't a man who would ever be able to pack on a few pounds. His diet was testament to that.

Dean's eyes were glassy, not quite feverish, but not far off and Sam debated between lack of sleep and something more sinister as its cause. His brother's hands shook, not horribly but certainly noticeable, and he moved with a slow stiffness that suggested a dull pain echoing throughout his entire lean frame.

Even more concerning was the man's increasingly erratic behavior over the last two days. There were moments that Sam would speak to him but Dean was entirely unaware of him doing so. He would become agitated and defensive, then moments later be his normal self again with no memory of his previous behavior. Once Sam had even watched him trail off midsentence and stare blankly at the stucco wall of the motel room for over an hour before suddenly resuming his rant on the recent episode of _Grey's Anatomy. _Of course, when Sam had confronted Dean about his behavior the older man had scoffed, calling him dramatic and insisting that since he had no recollection of any of it then it couldn't possibly be true.

"Dean," Sam said quietly. "Are you feeling alright?"

"What," Dean asked, looking up at his brother perplexed.

"You just seem…you don't look so good," Sam sighed. "I think that maybe we should—"

"Not this again," Dean groaned. "I told you I'm fine, alright?"

"So you don't feel sick at all?"

"Sick?"

"Yes, sick. Headaches? Chills? Anything like that?"

"Jesus," Dean snapped, earning a glare from nearby patrons who clearly felt that their illusion of a family establishment had been shattered rather rudely. "I feel fine, Sam. Great in fact, now will you drop it?"

"You've lost weight," Sam continued, reckless with concern.

"What," Dean blanched. "No, I haven't. I wouldn't look this good in this shirt if I had lost weight, Sammy. You must be seeing things, or maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you something. Maybe the self-confidence is getting a little low, eh? It would explain why you haven't had sex in months. Not since that cute little piece you had hidden in your hotel room the night I got back from the pit."

"Dean," Sam snapped, guilt churning in his gut at the thought of Ruby. "My sex life has nothing to do with this. You can't honestly tell me that you feel fine."

"Fine," Dean growled. "So maybe I feel a little bit under the weather. It's nothing to go hormonal on me for. Probably just a bout of the flu or something."

"Or something," Sam muttered. "Dean, you haven't been sleeping. Half the time you don't even remember the conversation we had five minutes ago and that is if I can get you to answer at all. Something is going on with you and I want to know what it is."

"Drop it, Sammy," Dean warned, tone bordering on dangerous. "Nothing is going on."

"But—"

"I said drop it," Dean snapped loudly, making more than one head turn in their direction.

Sam glared at his brother beneath furrowed brows and Dean met his eyes defiantly for a moment before returning his attention to his food. Sam hated it when his brother acted like this. It was like he was staring at a brick wall though he thought that a real brick wall would be easier to break through.

Then again, Sam reminded himself, it isn't like you are being entirely honest either. He hadn't told Dean about Ruby and he knew that his brother would never learn of the events that took place while he'd been gone if Sam had anything to say about it. His elder brother would never understand, but Sam would be lying to himself if he said that he truly understood his actions either. It was all about Lillith, of course, it had to be all about her. Otherwise, what he was doing was wrong and perhaps even a bit demented, but since he had a good reason—

Sam couldn't help but shiver at the thought of Ruby and all the things they had done together. He craved the blood she offered him like a drug and the smallest part of him wondered if that was a good sign, but in the end his conscience was kicked to the curb, allowing pleasure to overtake him in waves of lust and passion. There was no love there, Sam knew, and there never would be. His relationship with Ruby was something primal and so disconnected from anything he'd had before that he almost didn't recognize himself when he was with her. She would do this thing with the pads of her fingers and—

Sam swallowed hard and shook the thought away, feeling flushed and dirty beneath the bright wallpaper that featured doll-like cowgirls with fake plastered smiles on painted faces with rosy cheeks. The bell on the front door rang with an almost overzealous cheer and Sam grit his teeth against the onslaught of annoyance that briefly followed.

Turning in his seat, he watched the newcomer stagger wearily into the restaurant before plopping his rather large girth into one of the diner booths, belly popping proudly over the top of the table. He was a man that was made for laughter, all wrinkled smiles and a sparkle in his eye that reminded Sam of a picture of Santa Claus he had seen as a kid. Today, however, with arthritis crippled hands covering his face in grief and his sheriff's hat lying dejectedly and unforgotten beside him, Sheriff Walter Peterson was anything but happy.

The sheriff didn't seem to notice the two Winchester boys, though he had spent a great deal of time answering their questions with the sort of forced joviality that Sam had come to expect from local law enforcement when dealing with members of the FBI, fake though they were. His eyes were glued firmly to the table and he didn't stir until Sally came round the corner with a pitcher full of water and a sunny smile. It fell almost immediately after seeing his face.

"Walt," the woman exclaimed. "God, are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

The man said something unintelligible in reply and Sally frowned.

"Honey, you've got to speak louder. I can't hear you."

"The Collins boy," Walt said slowly. "He—Christ, what the hell kind of world do we live in where three year old boys drown in two feet of water?"

"Oh God," Sally said, paling visibly and sitting down in the seat across from Walt with a sort of dazed plop. "Jimmy Collins? Dead? Walt, are you sure?"

"I wish I wasn't," Walt whispered harshly.

"Poor Melinda," Sally cried, covering her pixie mouth with a petite, manicured hand. "And Johnny—he's already lost his little girl from his first marriage. Oh, Jesus, Walt!"

Sally started to cry, her mascara dripping down her face in little rivulets of black that left bitter trail marks across her pretty cheeks. Walt gripped her other hand tightly, as if she was a lifejacket in a stormy sea.

"Excuse me," Dean said quietly, suddenly appearing beside the grieving pair. "I understand if this is a bad time, but—"

"Damn right, it's a bad time," Sheriff Peterson growled. "Just because you're a Fed doesn't mean you can just barge in demanding answers any time you want."

"Walt," Sally said, shocked. "What on earth has gotten into you?"

"They come in here wanting answers to questions that don't make a lick of sense," Walt snarled, looking at Dean with something close to disgust. "I ask you, why the hell is the FBI interested in a few accidental drownings? Buzzards, the whole lot of you are nothing but buzzards, picking and pecking at people's pain for a few lousy scraps from the institution we call government."

"That's not—"

"You listen to me, boy," Sheriff Peterson hissed, standing up far more quickly then Sam believed capable and pointing a stiff finger at Dean's nose. "If I hear so much as a rumor that you went and bothered those poor people so help me God I'll—"

"Walt," Sally snapped. "Sit down before you have a heart attack. The man is just doing his job."

Walt stared back at her incredulously for a long moment then seemed to deflate before their eyes. He went from a fierce, wild looking cop to a withered, world-weary old man in seconds. He sat back down in the booth and stared up at Dean with a mixture of chagrin and sorrow.

"I shouldn't have said all that," Sheriff Peterson mumbled. "I'm sure you didn't mean any harm, it's just—"

"We're a family," Sally continued. "What happens to one of us happens to all of us. He was just protecting his own, is all. You understand that, right?"

"I understand," Dean replied softly. "But, it doesn't change the fact that I have a job to do. My partner and I are going to need to ask you a few questions, Sheriff. Take some time if you need it, but the sooner we can get this investigation wrapped up the sooner we can leave your town in peace."

"I'll answer them for you on one condition," Sheriff Peterson replied evenly, staring up at Dean with suddenly shrewd eyes.

"Sorry," Dean quipped automatically, mouth running away from his brain as usual. "I don't swing that way, old man, but I'm flatte—"

"Agent Barker," Sam coughed, interrupting his brother smoothly.

"Right," Dean said, blinking back at him. "Bad joke. Very bad joke. Don't mind me. What's your condition?"

The Sheriff stared at Dean for a long time and Sam could tell that his older brother wasn't entirely comfortable beneath the man's penetrating gaze. He shifted uneasily and the muscles bunched at the apex of his shoulders turned rigid with discomfort. His fingers twitched incessantly and his fists seemed to flex and release on their own volition, his brother seemingly unaware of his nervous tic. Sam, however, was very aware and frowned as yet another sign of Dean's deteriorating condition made itself known to him.

"My condition," the sheriff said after a moment. "Is that you stop bull shitting me about why you're here and tell me what the hell is really going on."

"Believe me," Dean sighed. "If only we knew."

The sheriff nodded, seeming to ponder Dean's reply. His eyes shifted to Sam and he narrowed them in thought, rubbing a pudgy finger down his chin. Sam couldn't tell what the man was thinking, but there was something the sheriff wasn't telling them, some tidbit of knowledge the old man was choosing to keep to himself.

"Son," he said finally, addressing Dean once more. "Tell me, do you believe in ghosts?"

Dean's lips quirked into a smile at this and Sam sent a fervent warning to his brother to not get carried away with his answer in his mind.

"Do you," Dean countered, small grin still plastered on his lips.

"That's not how this is going to work," Sheriff Peterson said with a shake of his baldhead. "I ask the questions and you answer, boy. Or didn't your parents teach you how to respect your elders."

"I respect them plenty," Dean replied, a small flicker of annoyance creeping across his face.

"Then answer the damned question," Walt snapped. "Do you believe in ghosts or not?"

"My personal beliefs don't pertain to this investigation," Dean said, mustering up every piece of acting gold he'd picked up from the various crime shows he watched.

"I think they do," Walt said quietly.

"Walt," Sally interrupted timidly. "Walt, what are you saying? Do you honestly think that a ghost is responsible for—"

"Hush, Sally," Walt ordered gently. "This is between our FBI friends and myself at the moment. Go get us some beers, will you?"

"Are you sure," Sally asked quietly. "You haven't had a drink in over—"

"Yes, yes," Walt said testily. "You're right, Sally. Thank you. Jenna would never forgive me if I fell off the wagon now. Bring me water, if you would. And these two gentleman a beer."

"On duty," Sam reminded the sheriff blandly, but Dean shot him a penetrating glare.

"Speak for yourself," he said. "Sally, would you—"

"Two waters and a cold one," she said with a small smile. "Coming right up, McGorgeous."

Dean flashed her a winning smile and she disappeared with a swish of her cotton skirt. He looked back down at the sheriff and his grin immediately fell and was replaced with what Sam was sure Dean thought was FBI stoicism.

"Tell me," Walt said the moment Sally was out of earshot. "How long have you worked for the FBI?"

"Ten years," Dean answered automatically. "Now about that ghost theor—"

"I'll get to that in a minute," Peterson interrupted. "How about you, Agent Carter?"

"Eight years," Sam replied mechanically.

"Hmmm," Walt sighed. "Interesting."

"What," Dean snapped. "This mysterious act is really starting to get on my nerves, Sheriff. Just say what you are going to say, will you?"

"I know you aren't FBI agents," Walt said, staring at them with an unreadable expression on his face. "In fact, I think you two haven't been honest with me about a damned thing this whole time."

"That's ridiculous," Dean yelped. "Listen, we've shown you our badges—"

"Shit," Walt drawled. "My six-year old grandson could make one of them things if he had the right tools. Just because you've got a badge it doesn't make you any more legitimate then a crow calling itself a hummingbird, kid."

"Call our superior then," Sam said, thinking immediately of Bobby and his dozen phones.

"I don't need to," Walt replied. "I already know who I'm going to get and I really don't fancy talking to that old fool with him jabbering on about you two being hell-begotten Feds."

Dean's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water for several seconds before he could finally get control of himself. Sam stared at the Sheriff like he'd been punched in the face and it took him a long moment to wrap his head around what the old man had said.

"I don't understand what you mean," Sam croaked.

"Bobby Singer has been playing that old ruse since you two were pups," Walt grumbled. "He must have the power of God on his side or something because I don't know how he hasn't gotten himself caught."

"You know Bobby," Dean spluttered. "Since when?"

"Since he helped me out of a tight spot about twenty years back," Sheriff Peterson answered. "My sister got herself possessed by one of those black smoke sons of bitches and Bobby Singer saved her life. He called me this morning and told me who you two really were, which isn't to say I didn't have my fair share of suspicions before that. He said that he'd owe me one if I kept you two idgits out of trouble and I figure he's done right by me, I can do right by him and if helping you means saving the lives of the folk down here then I'm at your disposal."

"Why didn't Bobby mention you," Sam asked in confusion.

"Dude," Dean said, shooting him a withering glance. "It's Bobby."

"Right," Sam swallowed. "Sorry. Earlier, the whole speech on us being vultures, I thought—"

"Oh," Peterson growled. "All of that still stands, son. Hunters aren't exactly known for their bedside manner, are they? You lot can be some cold sons of bitches when you want to be."

"Well, I don't care what you think about us," Dean purred happily. "This makes things a whole hell of a lot easier. Listen, maybe you can help us with a little bit of the local folklore around here and—"

Suddenly, Dean trailed off and lifted a shaking hand to rest against his stomach, grimacing in what could only be pain. His face was ashen and there was a fine sheen of sweat dotting his brow. He swayed slightly and put a hand out to steady himself against the table.

"Dean," Sam said, concerned. "Hey, are you alright?"

"Yeah," Dean replied hoarsely. "I just—Shit, this feels bad."

"What," Sam demanded, looking from the Sheriff to his brother in a panic. "What does?"

"I think I might have eaten a bad hamburger or something, Sammy. I don't feel right all of a sudden."

"I thought you said it was the flu," Sam pointed out, rather snidely.

"I don't know what it is," Dean groaned, hugging his arms across his lower chest. "Damn it, let me sit down for a second. I just need to—sit, yeah, just need to sit."

Sam stood and reached a hand out to help steady his brother as he made his way over to the booth, but before they reached their destination Dean froze, clutching his stomach as he bit down on a cry of agony.

Suddenly, he coughed and Sam was horrified to see a great deal of blood spatter the shiny white tiles, marring the sheen surface in graceful arcs and elegant spatters like some macabre form of splatter painting. Sam was unaware of Sally dropping the glasses and the lone beer in shock, the clear stream of liquid mixing with Dean's blood in a shocking hue of pink. He was unaware of the little towheaded girl in a booth on the opposite side of the diner shriek in fear. He was unaware of Sheriff Peterson barking orders for someone to call an ambulance and to give them some goddamn room.

Sam was only aware of his brother sagging against him, all the strength suddenly gone from his legs. Dean's breath was harsh in his throat and he stared at the blood on the floor with a sort of sick fascination and dazed amazement.

"Is that mine," he asked, words slurring slightly, before wincing. "Jesus, Sammy, this hurts. What's happening to me?"

He slumped to the floor and if Sam hadn't been supporting him he probably would have smacked his head against the tile. His breathing was a harsh rattle and Sam supported his head so that his airways were clear. Dean's eyelids fluttered like camera shutters and Sam felt a fear so strong he could take the bitter metallic bite of it in his mouth.

"Hey," he all but shouted at his older brother. "Stay with me, Dean. Don't you dare pass out."

"Say," he breathed, smiling slightly with bloodstained teeth. "One hell of a cheeseburger, huh?"

And with that Dean's eyes fluttered closed and the Winchester man saw no more.


	2. Mysterious Fathoms Below

**Author's Note: **_Thanks for reviews you guys! I was so happy that I've already written chapter 2! Hope you enjoy!_

Returning to consciousness was never as joyous an occasion as it was made out to be. In fact, if Dean were honest, it freaking sucked. His head felt stuffed, like he was Winnie the Pooh and no mater how hard he tried he couldn't think, think, think. His vision would be blurry and that was only if he could get his damn eyes open, which, at the moment, felt like they were being held down by ten pound weights. Snatches of conversation came and went like catching tidbits of a radio transmission as static threatened to overcome the tinny voices on the other end. God, he felt awful.

He knew he was in the hospital. He could tell by the feel of the sheets as he twiddled it idly between his toes and the faint antiseptic stench that had permeated every hospital room Dean had ever been in. Which, considering his occupation, had been a lot. He couldn't say whether he was pleased or pissed about his current location, at the moment. On the one hand, he hated doctors with an intensity rivaling Nicole Richie and Paris Hilton, but on the other hand Dean never said no to vixen nurses, though he wondered just how much sex appeal he could muster in a dress and oxygen tubes sprouting from his nose like some tentacled monster of the deep.

There was a sudden rush of cold fluid from the I.V. in his arm and Dean opened his eyes to stare blearily about him. He was dismayed to find a rather homely looking nurse who had to be at least fifty smiling down at him like she was freaking Mother Theresa.

"There you are," she said cheerily. "We were wondering when you were going to wake up."

"What happened to me," he asked, thinking the words sounded clear in his head, but suspecting that they had been muddled by an assortment of painkillers and other drugs. If the nurse's expression was anything to go by, he was right.

"Don't try and talk just yet," the nurse cooed. "You're still a bit doped up, dear."

"Sam," Dean groaned, promptly ignoring her advice. "My brother…Sam."

"He's right outside," the nurse drawled. "We're just checking on your vitals and bringing you down from the medication. The doctor will be in to check on you in a moment, but in the meantime let me know if you need anything. My name is Donna."

"Donna," Dean mumbled woozily. "Got it. Can I get some water? I feel like I've swallowed sand or cat litter. Take your pick."

"I wish I could," Donna simpered. "But, the doctor says no water until he gives the okay."

"What," Dean groaned playfully. "No room service? What kind of hospital are you running here, lady?

"We've got ourselves a joker," Donna laughed. "I'll tell you what, kiddo, if you can keep it a secret I can see about getting you some ice chips."

"Donna," Dean slurred. "You do that and I'll marry you right here and now. Call the preacher, call the band, call the whole damn party cause we're getting hitched."

"Sure," Donna smiled. "Whatever you say, Casanova. Give me a minute and I'll be back with the ice chips. It will give you and your brother a chance to talk. He's been very worried about you, you know."

"Oh, I'm sure he was," Dean murmured. "Sammy's the little girl of the family, but don't tell him I said that."

"She doesn't have to," Sam said from somewhere to Dean's left. "Sammy heard you just fine."

"Good," Dean called weakly. "Maybe now you'll stop acting like such a whiny bitc—"

"Boys," Donna chided teasingly. "At least wait until a lady is out of the room before you start using language like that. My momma taught me right, you know."

"Sorry Donna," Dean sighed. "It won't happen again. Scout's promise… or, uh, something like that."

"Scout's honor," Sam corrected absently, watching Donna smile at the two men before leaving, the door closing behind her with a soft click.

"You would know," Dean huffed, rolling his eyes. "Nothing but a bunch of pansy ass bitches holding pellet guns. You'd fit in perfectly."

"I was really worried about you, Dean," Sam said quietly, ignoring his brother's pointed jab.

"Of course you were," Dean replied, patting his brother's hand with brotherly sarcasm and closing his eyes. "Turn on the television, would you? If the damned heart monitor beeps at me one more time I'm going to rip the thing off."

"Aren't we going to talk about his," Sam demanded.

"About the television," Dean asked innocently. "Or the heart monitor? Cause honestly I—"

"Dean," Sam said flatly. "You just spat up about a pint of blood all over yourself and scared the hell out of some sweet little girl by collapsing in it. Don't change the subject."

"A little morbid, huh Sammy? And don't you think you're getting a little carried away? A pint? Seriously?"

"Dean," Sam said warningly.

"What do you want me to say," Dean asked, suddenly angry. "I don't know what happened, all right? One minute I was fine and then…"

"And then," Sam needled.

"And then I wasn't," Dean snapped. "End of story."

"You've been off for days," Sam continued despite his brother's glare. "You should have told me before this."

"Why? All you would have done is bitch at me about it…like you're doing now."

"Dean, you could have died."

"I didn't."

"Why do you have to be so cavalier about everything?"

"Dude, cavalier? Really?"

"This is what I'm talking about, Dean. You act like nothing bothers you, but the truth is it does."

"Look, man, all I'm saying is that if you ever want to land a chick you've got to stop going around sounding like freaking Poindexter, alright?"

"Dean," Sam yelled, fury darkening his face. "Do you understand what happens to you if you die?"

"I'll sprout wings and fly away," Dean replied tiredly, staring up at his brother in exhaustion.

"You'll go back to hell, Dean. If you die then you'll go back to the pit."

"That was low, even for you, Sammy."

"Maybe, but its true and since you refuse to deal with that I have to force you."

"We don't know that for sure," Dean spat. "Cass never said anything about me going back if I died, Sam. And you'd think that would be something he would mention."

"He's an angel," Sam pointed out. "If we've learned anything about them in the past few months its that they are almost secretive to a fault."

"And that they're assholes," Dean said mildly. "But, hey, you can't be all perfect, right?"

"Dean," Sam said softly. "Please."

Dean was about to open his mouth to say something he probably would have regretted later, but was saved a brotherly smack down by the middle-aged man in vivid blue scrubs and a lab coat who knocked quietly on his room door before stepping in with a sunny smile plastered to his face. You're gonna die, the smile said, but I'm gonna make you feel damned pleased about it before you do. The man held a clipboard in his steady hands and Dean frowned at it like the charts and printouts it contained were making him sick.

"Look Igor," Dean said, aware he was being rather rude. "It's Dr. Frankenstein returning from the graveyard to stitch me back together."

"I can assure you I'm no Dr. Frankenstein," the doctor laughed and Dean instantly liked him for reasons he could not define. "Although, I'll admit, he does have cool hair."

"Depends," Dean grunted. "Are we talking Clive or Wilder?"

"Wilder," the doctor replied instantly. "All the way, man."

"I like this guy," Dean told Sam with a weak smile. "He has good taste in monster movies."

"Then you'll love my last name," the doctor said with a boyish grin. "Hyde. I'm Dr. James Hyde, the attending doctor here at the fine North Arkansas Regional Medical Center."

"Hmm," Dean mumbled, eyes closed. "A doctor named Hyde. This could either end really well or it could end really badly."

"Hopefully well," Hyde said. "Although, I've got some rather bad news."

"Trust me," Dean muttered. "There is no diagnosis you can give me that could be worse than what I've already been through. So, go ahead and give it to me straight doc, what have I got?"

"Well," Hyde replied hesitantly. "That's just it. You don't have anything, at least not anything we've been able to identify. Whatever it is it's something we've never seen before."

"Surprise, surprise," Dean mumbled, grimacing as his insides protested being locked away inside him.

"What?"

"Nothing," he sighed. "Go on."

"Your blood count is off the charts," Hyde said, glancing at the young man strangely. "Which would suggest a cancer of some sort, maybe, or a lung disease, but there aren't any tumors that we can see and your lungs are as healthy as can be expected in a man your age."

"Cheers for me," Dean said.

"You're bleeding internally," Hyde went on. "Or you were when they brought you in. We were able to get that under control, but the thing of it is there was no reason for you to be bleeding in the first place. No ruptured organs, no blunt force trauma, nothing. It's like your symptoms just manifested without reason and then disappeared. How are you feeling now?"

"Drained," Dean said quietly, opening his eyes. "Like I've had all the life sucked out me."

"Part of that is the drugs," Hyde explained, coming over to check the readout on the heart monitor. "Blood pressure is a little low and your temperature is slightly higher than I would like it to be, but all in all you are a pretty healthy man considering how you came in. I just don't understand what the hell happened to you, Mr. Winchester. I've never seen a thing like it before."

"Well," Dean said, attempting to sit up but failing miserably. "I'm not sticking around for you to find out, Dr. Hyde. Sam, help me up."

Sam didn't move and Dean stared incredulously at him for a moment before cursing and sitting himself up, not sure whether the sheer weakness or the horrible pain he was experiencing concerned him more. He fell back with a groan and lay there for a moment, staring up at the hole speckled ceiling in frustration.

"I really don't think you are in the condition to be going anywhere," Hyde said softly, holding Dean's shoulder in case he tried to move again. "We need to run some more tests and see if we can't pinpoint where you're pain is coming from."

"No tests," Dean growled. "They won't help anyways."

"Mr. Winchester," Hyde reasoned. "I understand if you have doubts about the scientific world of medicine, but I can assure you that we are more than capable of at least helping you feel better. If you would just—"

"Sammy," Dean said, shooting Hyde an apologetic glance at interrupting him. "I think it's safe to say that whatever this is, its probably from our neck of the woods, yeah?"

"That's what it sounds like, Dean, but maybe you should stay here and let me figure this one out on my own."

"Oh sure," Dean said sarcastically. "Let me just do that. Now, stop being an idiot and help me up."

"Mr. Winchester," Hyde chided as Dean put his feet over the side of the bed. "Please be reasonable about this. I'd hate to see you hurt and I really can't let you just walk out of here."

"You can," Sheriff Peterson rumbled from behind them. "And you will, James."

"But, Walt—"

"It's alright," Walt soothed. "I'll look out for him. You've got to trust me on this one, James. You won't be able to help him and I think, deep down, you know it."

"It doesn't make any sense," Hyde whispered, tone bordering on wonder.

"No," Walt said. "I reckon it doesn't, but do you remember that discussion we had a few weeks ago? You know, the one we had over your wife's delicious peach cobbler?"

"Yeah," Hyde replied softly. "I know the one."

"Consider this one of those cases we talked about, alright? I know you took a Hippocratic oath or some shit, but I promise you'd be doing the kid more harm by keeping him here. You understand?"

"No," Hyde sighed. "But, I trust you, Walt. Maybe a little too much sometimes."

"Great," Dean said loudly. "We all trust each other, now can somebody please help me put my pants back on? I'm free-balling it here and this room is cold."

"I've got this," Sam told the two other men. "Walt, if you want to wait outside? I'll have him ready to go in a minute."

The two men nodded and left, Hyde glancing back at Dean worriedly before being pulled out by Peterson. Dean grimaced and clutched his chest as pain shot through him, but he was able to squelch down the groan that threatened to come shooting out of his lips.

"Dean," Sam said questioningly.

"I'm alright," Dean said, waving away his brother's concern with an irritated hand. "Just grab my pants, will you? And my shirt?"

"You got blood on it," Sam said quietly, handing Dean a bundle of garments.

"Wouldn't be the first time, would it? I've got a jacket in the Impala. I'll slip it on and nobody will notice."

"Dean," Sam protested. "It's a hundred degrees outside. You might look a little strange wearing a coat."

"Beggars can't be choosers," Dean grumbled, horrified at how weak he was. He was having trouble even lifting his leg into his jeans.

"Let me help you," Sam said, reaching down.

"I can do it," Dean snapped. "I'm not crippled, you know. I can put my own damn pants on." I hope, Dean thought to himself.

After a good five minutes and equal parts cajoling and cursing, Dean was more or less clothed and was leaning his weight on his brother's shoulders as he stood. Dizziness crashed into him like a tidal wave and he had to take a moment to make the room stop spinning around like one of those gravity inducer fair rides.

"You good," Sam asked gently.

"Yeah," Dean rasped. "I'm…I'm good."

"We've got a wheelchair waiting for—"

"No way," Dean said. "There is no chance in hell I am getting in a wheelchair, Sammy."

"Are you kidding me," Sam protested. "Dean, you can barely walk. How exactly do you plan on getting out of here?"

"I'll crawl if I have to," Dean replied stubbornly. "No wheelchair, Sam. I mean it."

Sam cursed and called him a rude name, but Dean wasn't paying a great deal of attention to his brother and his muttered abuses. No, Dean was staring, wide-eyed, at the ghostly apparition of his father who stood not ten feet from him.

"Sam," Dean said hoarsely. "Do you see him, Sammy?"

"What," Sam asked in confusion. "See who, Dean?"

"Dad," Dean rasped, pointing with a shaking finger. "Please tell me you see him, Sammy. He's right over there."

Suddenly, with a flash of bright light, John Winchester was gone and Dean was left staring at the spot he'd been occupying only moments before, finger held out like an idiot.

"He's gone," Dean said dumbly. "I don't…he was just here, Sam. I swear."

"I'm sure you thought you saw him," Sam began.

"I'm not crazy," Dean said angrily. "I saw him dammit."

"I wasn't calling you crazy," Sam sighed. "I just meant that maybe you had a hallucination or something. I—wait—Dean, when did you start feeling funny?"

"What," Dean asked. "What does that have to do with me seeing Dad?"

"If I'm right then everything," Sam said excitedly. "I may know what we are up against, Dean."

"Good for you," Dean rasped impatiently. " I started feeling funny a day after we got here maybe."

"Hmmm…"

"Care to share with the rest of the class?"

"Have you ever heard of an Encantado, Dean?"

"If it's anything like an Empanada then sure."

"No," Sam sighed. "An Encantado is a Brazilian river monster, Dean. They are like shape-shifters but instead of taking only human form they lurk in the water as dolphins."

"Hold on," Dean said blanching. "Are you telling me a freaking dolphin did this to me?"

"The legend depicts them as dolphins," Sam explained. "But, who knows what they really look like. Nobody has ever actually seen one before."

"And what makes you think it's this Empanada—"

"Encantado."

"Whatever. The Brazilian whatsit. What makes you think its that?"

"I don't have much to go on," Sam said with a shrug. "But, Encantado's are notorious for their power, Dean. People that live near the Amazon are so afraid of them that they refuse to go near the water alone. I took a class on South American mythology just for fun back at Stanford and my professor talked about them. They can cause illnesses, Dean, and make you see things that aren't there. Even control your thoughts."

"Great," Dean muttered. "A freaking porpoise is controlling my brain."

"Dean," Sam said. "Do you even know what a porpoise is?"

"Dude," Dean said, offended. "I watch Animal Planet. Of course, I know what a porpoise is. Just because you went to some hoity toity college back West doesn't mean you've got all the brains, you know."

"Then you know that a porpoise is different from—"

"A dolphin," Dean snapped. "Yes, Sam, I know. Enough with the freaking trivia game already and get to the important stuff. How do we kill it?"

"I don't know," Sam sighed. "My professor didn't exactly cover how to kill things in class."

"What a complete waste of time," Dean said. "Seriously, dude, I don't know why you ran off to college when they don't even teach you how to kill stuff."

"That was sort of the point, Dean."

"Yeah, well, a load of crap in my opinion."

"Says the man who had to take the GED test three times before he passed it."

"That was beneath the belt, man. And to make it worse you said it when I was possibly on my deathbed. The equivalent of kicking a three-legged puppy, caught in the rain right after its owners dumped it on the streets. I hope you realize how much karma is going to bite you in the ass later."

"Maybe karma was using me to get back at you for something you've done," Sam sniffed.

"Right," Dean said, rolling his eyes. "Cause I'm the bad one. Sheesh, Sam, you need to wake up and smell the coffee. I'm a freaking angel, no better than that, I'm the guy who the angels rip out of hell. I have to be good, right?"

"Sure, Dean. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"Sammy," Dean said. "Why am I the only one that's sick? I mean, it seems like this whatsit has been drowning people, but wouldn't it be easier and a lot more effective for it to make everyone ill?"

"I don't know, Dean. I'll have to do some research when we get back to the motel and see what I can find out. We just have to keep you alive long enough for us to figure out a way to stop it."

"It's not death I'm worried about," Dean whispered.

"Then what?"

"Sam," Dean said hesitantly. "What if…what if I…shit, this is hard. Hell, Sammy. What if I see Hell?"

"What are you talking about, Dean?"

"You said this thing could make me hallucinate right? And I've already seen Dad so it's safe to say that its probably going to happen. What if it makes me…you know, see it again. I don't know if I could stand it, Sam. I don't know if I can…"

"Don't worry about that now," Sam said quickly. "We'll figure that out if it comes to it, alright?"

"Yeah," Dean whispered. "Sure."

"You ready," Sam asked, holding the majority of his brother's weight.

"Yep," Dean smirked. "Let's go kick some dolphin ass."

Sam glanced at his brother and grimaced, watching as his brother thought about his words with pursed lips.

"Alright," he admitted seconds later. "That sounded a lot less awkward in my head."

"Look at the bright side," Sam laughed. "At least you didn't say porpoise."

"Porpass," Dean smirked. "Get it, Sammy? Porpoise…porpass?"

"Yeah, Dean. I got it."

"Still not working?"

"Nope."

"Damn. Thinking up clever one liners for this little excursion is going to be harder than I thought."

"Give it time. It will come to you."

"You think?"

"One way or the other you always manage to find something to say."

"I really am a master of biting wit and scathing remarks, aren't I?"

"Sure, Dean. Your words strike fear in the hearts of monsters everywhere."

"See, now you're being plain mean."

"Would you prefer me to coddle you?"

"Dude, you so much as say the word coddle and I will kick you in the face."

"Right then, mean it is."

"Sammy?"

"Yes?"

"Can we get pie on our way back?"

"Seriously? You want pie now?"

"Sam, let me explain something to you. The world as we know it could be collapsing, which I realize that with certain recent revelations that is more than possible, but even if it does I will always have time for pie. It is that important to me."

"What if it was a choice between a piece of pie and the impala?"

"Don't ask stupid questions, Sam."

"I'm just saying—"

"You're going to offend me and my baby all on the same day? You disgust me, dude."

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up and walk."


	3. Thank God for Scrubbing Bubbles

**Author's Note: **_Hello all, here is Chapter 3. I'm really hoping you guys will start reviewing soon because I need them to know how I'm doing and other people will read my story if it has them so if you like it or don't like it let me know please. I would really, REALLY appreciate it._

Sam Winchester had seen a great deal of horrors in his time. Demons, vampires and ghosts were no big deal. Banshees, witches and ghouls brought a smile to his face. Zombies, werewolves, and shape-shifters were laughable. Seeing his brother dying before his eyes, however, scared the hell out of him.

Of course, he'd seen Dean hurt before. Being a hunter meant dealing with the odd bruise or two. Maybe even some broken bones or gunshot wounds just to add a little spice to their already flaming curry of a lifestyle. Even worse than seeing Dean hurt was watching him die, over and over again, in a thousand different ways. The mystery spot had granted him that peculiar little jewel of experience and after that he'd seen his brother get torn to bits by hellhounds. It seemed safe to say that watching Dean lying on Walt's couch, his glassy eyes glued to the television set, and occasionally having Mrs. Peterson try and shove another bowl of homemade chicken noodle soup down his throat would be the easiest to witness out of all of the other close calls and deaths combined. It wasn't. It was the worst.

It was the weakness that made Sam sick to his stomach. He'd seen Dean in pain before, physical and mental, and while the little groans and agonized grimaces made him wince with sympathy it was only when Dean attempted to sit up and couldn't that Sam almost lost it.

Dean hadn't said much since Sam and Sheriff Peterson had manhandled him through Walt's living room door and onto the couch. He had allowed Mrs. Peterson to fuss about him like a mother hen and hadn't once snapped at her for coddling him. Sam believed that a small part of his brother liked the motherly attention for he'd missed it desperately since their own mother had perished, but a larger, more concerned part believed that Dean was just too damn tired to care.

He huddled beneath a pile of blankets, shivering uncontrollably, sipping hot soup while he stared unseeingly at the little television set the Peterson's had bothered to buy. They were book people, Mrs. Peterson had explained. Which, judging by the stacks and stacks of books that covered every shelf in the house, this was a bit of an understatement.

Dr. Hyde had given him a great deal of pain medication before they had left and Sam was secretly grateful for the doctor's thoughtful gesture. Even more impressive was the pick line he had arranged for Dean to take home with him so that he could be given saline, drugs, and other fluids with greater speed and more efficiency. Dean had fiddled with it relentlessly until Mrs. Peterson had threatened to tape his hands to his sides if he didn't stop messing with it. The young hunter had looked at her with more alarm then Sam had seen him give to most monsters he faced on daily basis.

Sam was also glad that Walt had insisted the boys stay with him and his mistress. He'd been surprised by the gesture, maybe not as much as by Walt calling his wife his mistress, but enough that he'd said something about it to the older sheriff. Dean had said something to, but he was so out of it in the backseat that neither Walt nor himself had any clue what it was.

The home was the picture of domestic bliss. Located firmly in the middle of Oxford Street, it was a quaint little plantation style house complete with a wraparound porch and a tree swing hanging gently from an enormous oak in the backyard. It's canary yellow paint was chipped and the boards of the porch were beginning to rot and splinter, but Sam could see that the house had been tenderly cared for over the years. The little garden out front was painstakingly weeded and groomed and the lawn had the earthy smell of freshly mown grass. Birds of various sorts and colors flew to and fro from a little birdbath in the center of the yard and the bitter nostalgia for a stable home such as the Peterson's hit Sam hard for the first time in many years. Of course, Dean ruined it by puking all over the grass.

"Sorry," Dean had groaned, looking up at Walt blearily from all fours.

"It's alright," Walt had replied gently. "You get it all out, son. Sometimes that's the only thing that makes us feel better. It'll wash away easy enough."

Dean had thrown up six more times in the next two hours before he finally 'got it all out'. At first, Mrs. Peterson had insisted upon helping him stumble to the bathroom, rubbing his back in gentle circles as his body strained and heaved, and whispering to him soothingly. Sam had no idea what she had said to him, but when Sam had asked Dean had difficulty speaking past the lump of emotion in his throat and his younger brother quickly dropped the subject.

Sam had never been good with puke. He handled blood and guts with ease, but vomit was something that made him ill just thinking about it. So, needless to say, he was more than willing to let Mrs. Peterson handle puke duty. Or, at least, he had been. It was on her last time assisting Dean that she suddenly came rushing out of the bathroom, pale and shaken.

"What is it," Sam asked, jumping to his feet. "Is Dean okay?"

"He's…he just started…I didn't know what to do," Mrs. Peterson panted, staring at him with wide eyes.

"Calm down, Jen," Walt rumbled. "What's going on?"

"Blood," Jenna whispered. "He just started coughing up blood, Walt. Jesus, why isn't he in the hospital?"

"It's not that kind of sickness," Walt replied gently. "Sam, go check on him. I'm going to see if I can't calm the missus down a bit."

Sam nodded quietly and made his way to the little half-bath located on the main level, his feet padding softly on the calming sky blue carpet. He could hear Dean coughing and spitting, his hacking sounding wet and thick to his ears. Peering around the door, Sam watched as his brother held onto the rim of the toilet until the pads of his fingers turned white. He couldn't see Dean's face very well, but he could see the tiny splatters of blood that marred the white porcelain every time he coughed, chest hitching violently with every spasm. His skin was sheet white, his dark blue shirt was drenched with sweat and when Sam reached out a hand to touch him Dean's flesh blazed against his own.

"Crap," Sam muttered when Dean finally stopped coughing and fell back tiredly against the wall. "Dean, your fevers gotten worse."

"No kidding," Dean replied dryly, voice far too weak for Sam's liking. "How's Mrs. Peterson?"

"You practically hacked out a lung in her toilet bowl, Dean," Sam said, grabbing a wad of toilet paper from the roll so Dean could wipe the blood from his face. "How do you think she's doing?"

"Scared the hell out of her," Dean said quietly, glancing at the bloodstained tissues with minor disgust before tossing them unceremoniously into the red spotted bowl.

"She'll be alright," Sam replied. "Come on, let's get you off this floor."

"Not yet," Dean whispered weakly. "Just…let me sit here for a minute, Sammy."

"I can carry you if you—"

"Shut the hell up, Sam."

"It was just a suggestion, Dean. If you don't feel strong enough to make it back to the couch you should stop being such a tough guy and let me help you."

Dean remained silent and when Sam looked down at him he was surprised to see his older brother staring at something behind him, eyes crinkled with a mixture of dislike and relief.

"What," Sam asked, turning, "What is i—"

The question died in his throat as he determined exactly who it was that Dean was looking at. It was of some comfort to him that there was, in fact, somebody there and that Dean was not already falling into another hallucination.

"Castiel," Sam said evenly, staring at the angel uncertainly. "What are you doing here?"

"I came for him," Castiel said, looking at Dean with piercingly intense eyes.

"I'm a little busy at the moment," Dean rasped. "Come back later, Cassie. We'll have tea and crumpets. Maybe even some of those finger sandwiches. Those little bastards are surprising tasty, not that you'd know, being an angel and all."

"I don't understand," Cass said.

"Don't worry," Sam replied. "You aren't the only one. Half the things Dean says don't make a lick of sense."

"And the other half are pure genius," Dean said, shooting Sam a small smile. "It all evens out, you see?"

"Sure," Sam grunted, waving his brother away. "What do you mean you came for Dean?"

"He's dying," Castiel answered, looking at Sam with his head cocked slightly to the side.

"Dude," Dean whispered, tone bordering on delirious. "Did you hear that? I'm dying, Sammy. I had no idea, but Cass here figured it out all on his own." He laughed bitterly. "And I thought angels were supposed to be smart. Cass, you dickweed, of course I'm dying. Stop talking about it and do something, or, is that against the rules?"

"I would," Castiel answered with no hint of pity. "But, there is nothing I can do that would help fix you, Dean."

"Figures," Dean muttered. "What the hell are you good for anyways, Cass? You can't do jack shit. Just…sprout your angel wings or whatever the hell it is that you have and get the hell out of my face."

"Dean, I—"

"Go," Dean rasped angrily. "Sammy, get him out of he—"

Dean suddenly choked as blood caught in his throat and Sam closed his eyes in horror as it bubbled out between his lips. He tried to lurch up from the wall, but couldn't find the strength and almost immediately fell back again. He looked up at Sam with panicked eyes as he coughed red splatters all over the front of his freshly laundered shirt.

"Sammy," he gurgled. "Please…I can't—"

Sam promptly fell to his knees and pulled Dean into a sitting position, carefully bending him over the toilet bowl and holding him upright as he retched violently into it. Sam could hear him sobbing in misery and the younger Winchester's heart broke. He finally stopped choking and sagged against the toilet, his fingers clenching Sam's jeans in a death grip.

"Jesus," he said between hitching breaths. "This hurts…so bad, Sammy. I don't think… anything has ever hurt…this bad. Make it…stop. Help… me…just please…make it stop hurting…so bad, Sammy."

"Sam," Castiel whispered from behind him. "Let me help."

"You just said that you couldn't do anything," Sam snarled. "Which is it?"

"You don't understand," Castiel said, frowning. "I said I could do nothing to fix him, but I can make the pain go away. At least for a little while."

"Do it," Sam said without pausing to think. "Do it fast."

Castiel nodded and pulled a shivering, semiconscious Dean into his arms, cradling him like a child. It was the most gentle thing Sam had ever seen the angel do and for a brief moment his heart softened slightly and he wondered if Castiel was all that bad.

"Cass," Dean murmured, eyes hooded and glazed. "What…you doing?"

"Sleep, Dean," Castiel replied, taking two fingers and placing them gently in the middle of Dean's forehead.

Casteil closed his eyes and took a giant breath, pressing his fingers more firmly against Dean's skin. Suddenly, Dean gasped and his eyes flew open all the way, his body a rigid board in the angel's grasp. He wheezed out a cry and his hand shot up to try and tear Castiel's fingers off of him, but the angel didn't move an inch.

"Peace Dean," he said somberly. "It will soon be over."

"What the hell are you doing to him," Sam snarled.

"The pain is like a poison," Castiel answered, staring at Sam calmly as Dean struggled beneath him. "Like any toxin it must be drawn out. At first it will only bring more pain, but when I am done he won't feel any at all."

"You had better be right," Sam hissed, fighting desperately to keep from throwing himself at the angel.

He knew, of course, that if Castiel was hurting Dean there would be little he could do to stop him. So far the way to kill angels was hidden from them and he doubted very much that sending Cass away would greatly bother the angel. Dean was panting, sweat dripping from his pores, and he writhed in Castiel's grip like a slippery eel, tiny cries of pain ripping from his throat like screams. His fingers scrabbled uselessly against the angel's wrist in an effort to pry his fingers away and after a moment the older hunter gave up his futile efforts and clutched Castiel's trench coat tightly as he rode out the waves of agony.

Finally, after what felt like hours to Sam, Dean quieted, sagging limply into Castiel's chest, breaths coming in sharp gasps. He looked around wildly for Sam and upon finding his younger brother tried to say something, but no words came out. He seemed to ponder this for a moment and then, before Sam could wrap his head around what had happened, his eyes fluttered closed and he drifted into sleep.

"What in Christ's name was that," Walt said from the doorway, looking from Sam to Castiel in a daze. "What the hell are you, boy?"

"I am an angel of the Lord God," Castiel answered quietly, passing a slumped Dean over to Sam before standing up to his full height. "My brothers call me Castiel."

"Shit," Walt hissed out. "Sam, this whole thing is getting a little too strange a little too quickly."

"I know," Sam whispered as he absently brushed Dean's sweat drenched hair from his forehead. "We'll leave, Sheriff. We shouldn't have brought this on you two in first place."

"Don't be a fool," Walt grumped. "You two aren't going anywhere for awhile if the way that poor son of a bitch looks is any indication. I was just saying is all. Sometimes it helps a man wrap his head around a situation if he says his thoughts out loud."

"Sure," Sam breathed. "Look, Walt, I really appreciate you and Jenna's help with this. It isn't often that we have people on our side and certainly not nice folks like the two of you."

"It's our pleasure and our duty as Christians if you were to ask Jenna," Walt rumbled. "But, uh, and don't go smiting me for saying this, Castiel, but you have got to leave. I barely got my wife calmed down from seeing that boy spewing his guts all over her _Scrubbin Bubbles _cleaned john and I'm not itching to explain to her why some bigwig from beyond is standing in her kitchen, you understand?"

"I will go," Castiel said obediently and Walt looked slightly perplexed at how quickly an angel of the Lord complied with his wishes.

"Well, shit," Walt said. "Look at that! A goddamned angel is listening to me, Sam! How about that?"

"Don't get too excited," Sam said, smiling in spite of himself. "He's an asshole the majority of the time."

"Sam," Walt said, paling slightly. "Now, I'm not one of them Jesus freaks or anything. But, Christ almighty son, don't you think it's a little foolish to be calling an angel an asshole?"

"He's already met his smiting quota for this week," Sam joked, watching Castiel glance at him in confusion. "I think I'm safe."

"Smiting quota," Walt chuckled. "That was a good one, Winchester."

"I don't understand," Castiel began. "We don't have a smiting quota."

"It was a joke," Sam sighed.

Castiel frowned at him and cocked his head to the side. Whenever the angel mirrored this little human gesture he wondered whether it was Castiel's or if it was a characteristic of the human the angel was currently riding around on. Maybe one day he would ask him, but with the coppery stench of Dean's blood in his nose and the blazing heat of his brothers flesh searing him through his shirt Sam wanted to get out of that little bathroom as fast as he could.

"Walt," Sam said, grunting as he shifted Dean's weight around so that he could lay him gently on the floor. "Help me with him, would you?"

"Sure," Walt said, scooting his way into the bathroom while keeping his distance from Cass. "I'll get his feet."

Walt bent and lifted Dean's legs while Sam grabbed him under his armpits and together they heaved the feverish young man through the living room and onto the couch. Dean stirred slightly, opening his eyes to peer deliriously up at them and Sam decided that it was the perfect time to slip his ruined shirt from his shoulders.

Dean leaned against him while he stripped him of his garment and Sam was instantly shocked at how hot his brother's skin was. It was one thing to feel the heat through clothing, but entirely different to feel it up close and personal.

"Walt," Sam ordered. "Get me a cool washcloth, would you? He's burning up. We need to cool him down some."

"I'll do you one better," he said. "James slipped me some cold packs before we left the hospital this morning. Jenna's had them in the freezer all afternoon. They should be damn near arctic by now. I'll go get them."

He lumbered from the room and Sam tried to keep his brother from falling back into sleep. Mrs. Peterson had fixed him numerous glasses of water that afternoon and though Dean hadn't taken a sip from any of them she had continued to replace the sun warmed water with some fresh from the fridge. Sam was grateful that the woman had enough sense to give his brother a sippy cup, bright blue with a smiling cartoon cat on the side. He was sure that if Dean had actually looked at the container his unused refreshment had come in he would have had a conniption fit, but with Dean growing weaker by the hour Sam felt that whoever had thought of a cup with easy to hold, no slip handles and an attached straw deserved the Nobel Prize.

"Dean," Sam gently cajoled. "You need to drink some water, alright?"

Dean said nothing and Sam cursed when he found the older hunter unconscious again. He gently lay his brother back against the pillows, taking great care to leave all the blankets off of him even though Dean shivered as if freezing. The truth, however, was the exact opposite and Sam knew that when it came to fevers keeping the ill too warm and not warm enough was a fine line to walk.

He looked back to ask Castiel how long they should expect Dean to have no pain, but the angel had disappeared. Sam sighed and turned back to his brother right as Walt came back in with the cold packs.

The sheriff began placing them against Dean's skin at various parts of his body and Sam had to hold his brother down as he flinched away from the sudden frigidness against his overheated flesh.

"Sam," he rasped out. "Sammy, it's too cold."

Sam looked down at his brother, hoping that the young man had awoken, but even though Dean's face was wrinkled in discomfort, Sam knew the words had come from somewhere in Dean's delirium.

"You two are butchering it," Jenna clucked as she came around the corner, holding a fresh bag of saline solution and a sterilized pick line in which to deliver it with. "You do it like that and he's just going to kick them off."

"You do it then," Walt huffed watching as Dean did exactly what Jenna had warned he would.

"Move out of the way then, you big lummox."

"Bah," Walt growled with mock ferocity. "You think you're hot stuff, don't you?"

"Sure I do," Mrs. Peterson grinned as she lifted Dean's head and inserting her thin, petite lap underneath it. "That's why you married me, isn't it?"

"Naw," Walt teased, watching in fascination as Jenna slowly took an ice pack and eased it against Dean's skin. "I married you because you have the best peach cobbler in three counties."

"Only three," Jenna asked innocently.

"Well," Walt said. "I'm sure there was one better somewhere but I was too lazy to go looking for one. Besides, you were willing to jump in the back of my pickup truck after the third date. No man in their right mind is going to say no to that."

"Walt Peterson," Jenna cried indignantly. "You old goat, I swear if I wasn't trying to save this young man's life I'd beat you. Hell, maybe he'll get himself a good case of Nightingale Syndrome and whisk me away from here."

"Perhaps," Walt said with a loving smile. "But, I'd have to fight him for you. And even in his less than lively state I'm sure he could whip my ass five ways to Sunday. He does that for living, you know. Say, I thought you were putting the cold packs on him?"

"I am," Jenna said, holding a second ice pack firmly against Dean's skin as he squirmed against it. "If he has time to adjust to each one he won't kick them off. Taking care of the sick is slow and taxing work, Walt. I thought I told you that."

"Those Vietnam fellows were different," Walt grumped. "Half of those poor bastards were shot to hell and the other were so doped up they didn't even know their own names. I doubt it was too taxing."

"Hmmm," Jenna sighed, pursing her lips after applying a third cold pack. "I seem to recall you being one of those Vietnam fellows, dear."

"I know," Walt said. "I'm speaking from experience."

Sam watched the two of them bicker and tease while also keeping a close eye on his brother. He and Jessica might have been like Walt and Jenna, loving and tirelessly devoted to one another, but fate had stolen her from him and now he was left having demented sex with a demon while drinking her blood. Things had certainly changed.

Dean had tried to understand why Sam had left all those years ago, but he was a hunter at heart and as tirelessly devoted to John Winchester as the two Peterson's were to each other. Sam had always believed that John had taken advantage of his eldest son's trust and affection in the most despicable way a man could, even if he had done so out of love and grief. Dean had everything he had loved and known ripped away from him in a single night and was left to pick up the pieces of his father's broken heart while shoving his own feelings of loss in some crevasse deep inside him. He had only been five, but John had leaned on him for support as if Dean had been a middle aged adult.

And then, when John was too busy hunting to be a father, he had instructed Dean to be a dad to Sam. When Sam had been a baby they had stayed at Bobby's, but the surly man wasn't exactly known for his parenting skills and more often then not Dean had been required to find ways to keep him fed and happy. By the time Dean was eight and Sam was four John had begun leaving them alone for days at a time, blaming his eldest for anything that might have gone wrong while he was away. Sam had wanted to scream at his father when he'd chewed Dean out for something he couldn't have possibly controlled.

One day in particular stood out in Sam's memory. Dean had been no older than twelve when John had left them in search of a banshee somewhere out West. The first couple of days had passed like any other, but on the morning of the third day Dean had come down with a slight fever and had stayed home from school. Sam, only six or seven, had gone for a few hours, but felt sick himself and had been forced to call Dean to come pick him up. Of course, when the young man had come walking through the doors, pale and shaky the school office staff had jumped on him like a cat jumps on tuna. He'd been forced to explain why he was the one picking Sam up instead of his father and might have gotten away with it if he hadn't thrown up all over the office lady's shirt and promptly passed out.

Dean had woken up in the hospital and had found his father waiting for him. Sam remembered John berating him for not using his head and possibly getting them all in trouble. Dean had been younger then and was a bit more willing to stick up for himself, but John wouldn't see reason despite the validity of his son's arguments. John felt that Dean should have stayed home and let Sam ride it out at school. According to his father he could have gone to the nurses station and been just fine. Sam had only been seven, but he desperately wanted to tell his father how unfair he was being. Dean had been sick, very sick, and John was lecturing him on how he could have ruined the hunt for him. He was sure that there were hugs and ice cream and all manner of fatherly gestures afterwards, but it was always the reprimands that stood out in Sam's mind.

"Sam," Jenna said, bringing him crashing back down to earth. "Did you hear what I said?"

"No," Sam sighed. "Sorry, my mind went blank for a second. What did you say?"

"I said that I'm finished with the ice packs," Jenna repeated gently. "I'm going to sit with him awhile while you get some rest."

"Oh," Sam argued. "No, you don't have to do that. I'm fine to—"

"Son," Walt interrupted quietly. "You look like a mouse the cat has been dragging around town in his mouth for three days. Get some sleep, boy, that's not a suggestion. It's an order. We'll take care of your brother."

Sam glanced down at Dean who was shifting restlessly in Jenna's lap. He watched, astonished, as the older woman whispered something in his ear, tenderly running her fingers up and down his jaw and the hunter settled down almost immediately.

"Yeah," Sam sighed. "All right, but he needs fluids. I wasn't able to get him to drink anything."

"Already got the I.V. started," Jenna whispered, still rubbing the pads of her fingers in soothing circles on Dean's face.

"Right," Sam said tiredly. "I guess I can sleep for a little while then."

"Guest room is down the hall and to the left," Walt informed him. "You can sleep in your clothes if you like or you can borrow one of my shirts. It may be a bit big on you but at least it is clean."

"This is fine," Sam said, getting up from his spot in the armchair. "Thank you."

The couple smiled at him as he left the room and made his way down the hall. Sam could hear their muffled whispers and then suddenly Jenna was singing quietly, crooning voice reminding him of a young Billie Holliday. She was comforting his brother with some old lullaby and Sam knew that if Dean were awake that simple gesture might have brought tears to the normally emotionless man.

He took his shoes off once he was in the guest room but he didn't get under the covers. Sam didn't think he would be able to sleep a wink, but the second his head hit the pillow his world was gone in a kaleidoscopic dreamscape full of grotesque dolphin like creatures and a naked Ruby who beckoned to him from moonlit waters as the encantados danced around her.

"Come in," she called to him, voice echoing strangely within his mind. "Come in and drink, Sammy."

He waded to her, but when he reached her the water turned to blood and she was lifting the horrible liquid up to his lips in the palm of her hands.

"Drink," she crooned. "This will make you strong, Sammy. Dean's blood will make you strongest of all."

"No," he cried, pulling away from her. "Where is he, Ruby? Where is Dean?"

"Dean is dead," Ruby smiled. "Don't you remember, Sammy? You killed him."

Sam cursed and cried, screamed and raged, hit and spat, but Ruby only smiled at him, holding handfuls of Dean's blood up to him like some grotesque declaration of love and devotion.

"Drink," she kept repeating. "Drink and be strong."

In the end, Sam drank. He drank the entire lake full of his brother's blood and when he was done he looked out at the empty pit and screamed.

Screamed in horror.

Screamed in rage.

Screamed in sorrow.

But, most of all, Sam Winchester screamed in shame.


	4. We're Gonna Need a Bigger Boat

**A/N: **_PLEASE REVIEW! PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE!_

While Sam was tossing and turning in his nightmare world, Dean was having a rather pleasant dream. Or so it seemed to him. He was back in Lawrence and though he'd been an adult the last time he had visited there he saw the city as he had when he was a child, larger than it really was and full of adventurous wonders. He even had his old Converse High-tops laced about his feet and he smiled down at them like he was welcoming an old friend from a long journey.

The streets were vacant save for a lone woman standing perhaps ten yards down the way from him. She looked young, perhaps in her early twenties, and he could hear her youthful voice calling to him like a siren song. Dean took off after her, listening to the thud of his heels on pavement and the blood rushing through his face. He was faster than he remembered, uninhibited by such physical laws like gravity and old age. He had barely passed the age of thirty, he knew, but sometimes he felt like he was much older and at the tail end of his life. With the way things were going for him maybe he was.

"Wait," he called to her, surprised when his lips and tongue formed the word but his vocal cords refused to give sound to it. Apparently he was mute in his little dream world.

Even though he hadn't made a noise the woman turned back to look at him as if she'd heard him, smiling at him with something akin to longing in her eyes. She beckoned him forward with a long, slender finger and he began to sprint down the street, grinning like a loon at how wonderful a path his subconscious seemed to be heading down. He had almost reached her when Sam stepped directly in his path nearly knocking him over.

"Don't go to her," Sam said solemnly. "Don't go to her, Dean."

Dean rolled his eyes. Sam was a nuisance even in his dreams. He put a hand against Sam's shoulder and pushed, trying to move past him to where the girl stood waiting, watching the two with jealous eyes. His brother refused to budge, staring at him intensely.

"She's no good for you," Sammy warned. "Stay away from her, Dean. Go back home."

Dean sighed and walked around his younger brother, pausing only to look back at him in mild distaste. Sam had disappeared, however, and Dean turned his attention back to the little minx in the yellow sundress.

He could see her clearly now and he was immediately hit with a desire so strong he might have committed murder if it meant being with her. She was tall, but not freakishly so and her figure was lean and strong. She was barefooted and tan, smile full of wicked humor. She peered at him through turquoise eyes and her lips were quirked seductively, straight white teeth biting her lower lip as if shy. Brown hair cascaded over her bare shoulders and as he followed the brunette locks down her throat and over her arms he couldn't help but wonder if her skin tasted as creamy as it looked. Jesus, he thought absently, my dream is turning into a freaking romance novel.

She beckoned him forward again and he ran to her like she was the last drop of water in a barren desert. His breath came in harsh gasps, but he didn't mind the burn in his chest. It took his attention off the burn plaguing him elsewhere.

He followed her for a while, never stopping, only chasing her like a man possessed. They had passed the city limits and had begun down a path that Dean had never seen before and wasn't entirely sure he liked. Still, he followed.

The clouds above him turned surly and he could hear the distant claps of thunder as if the gods above were waging a war in the sky. Leaves skittered across the deserted streets and Dean almost jumped out of his skin with every predatory swipe of wind. He was chilled to the bone and shivering, but still he followed.

He only stopped when Bobby screamed his name out from across the street. He turned to face the old hunter in perplexity and frowned at him as he frantically waved Dean over to him. He looked desperately at the woman in the sundress and panicked when she did not stop for him. He shook his head at Bobby, trying to make him understand why he was refusing him.

"Turn around," Bobby screamed. "Go back, you idgit! Go back!"

Dean ignored him and continued on down the darkening street. Rain began to fall in torrents and lightning flashed, but still Dean followed. He loved her. Dean knew he did. He didn't know when it had happened or why, but all of that mattered very little to him. All he wanted was to hold the woman in the sundress in his arms for the rest of his life, to be with her, to love her. He would follow her to the end of the earth if he had to.

Dean wasn't sure when he became aware that something was following him. It skulked behind him, but refused to make its presence known to him. He was aware that his dream had somehow turned into a nightmare, but the desperate love he felt for this woman kept him from waking. Suddenly, he was sure that he was meant to save her from the beast following them. It didn't matter what the creature was or it's intent, all that mattered was her safety. He would tear its heart out if she asked it of him.

"Dean," said an agonizingly familiar voice. "Stop, son. Just stop."

Dean turned to gaze at the one person who could temporarily halt him from his mission of love. John Winchester stared evenly back and flashed his eldest a tentative smile. He put a warm, heavy hand on Dean's shoulder and pulled him into a rib-crushing embrace.

"Listen to me," John whispered in his ear. "She isn't what you think she is, son. Stop following her and go home. Please."

Dean pulled back and shook his head, glancing at where the woman had disappeared into a line of green foliage.

"I can't," he mouthed, almost jumping out of his skin when he could suddenly hear his words, soft but clear.

"Yes, you can," John whispered. "Fight it, Dean. Fight her off. You're a Winchester for, Christ's sake. Don't do this."

"You don't understand," Dean rasped. "I love her, dad. Don't you want me to be happy? Why can't you be happy for me?"

"She won't make you happy," John groaned. "She'll kill you, Dean. Please, just—"

"No," Dean snarled. "You never could stand for me to be happier than you were, dad. You made my life miserable, but not anymore. I don't have to listen to you!"

John reached out to grab his son, but Dean threw a punch at him, nearly falling over as his fists passed straight through him. John instantly vanished and Dean shouted in triumph and immediately pelted towards where he had last seen sundress girl.

"Wait," he shouted. "Wait up!"

He came bounding around the corner and stopped dead at the edge of a dark, hissing river. It's waters rushed past him and he could almost feel its icy depths calling out to him like a siren in the night.

None of this seemed to bother the sundress girl. She stood in the middle of the river, clothes clinging to the contours of her body in pleasant angles and shadows. She smiled at him and crooked her finger as if to draw him in.

"I can't," he shouted, trying to be heard over the rain and the roar of the river. "I'll drown."

"I won't let you," sundress girl said calmly. "Trust me, Dean. I'm not drowning, why would you?"

"I don't…it's too fast," Dean groaned. "I can't get to you."

"Don't you want me," sundress girl pouted. "I want you, Dean. Come in so we can be together forever."

"Forever," Dean breathed, taking a nervous step into the racing waters.

The water was freezing and not as shallow as he'd originally thought. He fell with a splash into the depths, water enveloping his entire body in a horrid cocoon of shattering agony. The icy cold was biting into him with razor teeth over and over again and when he screamed water rushed down his throat to fill his lungs.

The woman in the golden sundress stared down at him from the surface, plump lips pulling back from her teeth in a feral snarl. She grabbed a hold of his shirt collar and drug him down, down, down into the depths until his back hit the rocky bottom with a painful thud. Dean struggled uselessly against her, but she held firm and pulled his face towards hers. She kissed him then and Dean groaned with a sudden insane pleasure. She was killing him, he knew, sucking the air from his lungs, but he couldn't stop his lips moving against hers or his hands from tangling themselves in her hair.

Dean's vision narrowed until all he could see was her face. She wrapped cold hands around his throat and squeezed viciously, pulling back to watch the life fade from his eyes. She was no longer the beautiful siren of the deep and if Dean could have screamed he would have. There simply wasn't enough air in his lungs.

Her teeth, no longer straight but crooked, were jagged like a shark and Dean could vaguely make out rows and rows of teeth behind the first set. Her eyes, once turquoise and filled with youthful vivacity, were now flat and black and he could see the hunger reflected in her gaze. She's going to eat me, Dean thought dully, vision blackening further. Dear God, I'm going to be mermaid chow.

Wake up, he thought desperately. Wake up, dammit, wake up! But, he didn't wake up. She was crushing the life from him with her now webbed fingers and Dean couldn't escape from her. Suddenly, Dean knew, with absolute certainty that this was no longer a dream. He was not in Lawrence and there had been no pretty woman in a sundress, only this thing, luring him to his death with hallucinations of love and pleasure beyond his wildest imaginings.

How long had he been under? Thirty seconds? A minute? Longer? Regardless of how long it had been, Dean knew he had very little time left. He wanted to fight her, he really did, but his muscles no longer held the strength to do anything but keep his laboring heart beating. Suddenly, there was blinding pain in his shoulder, right in the space where his throat met his collarbone. The water turned a murky brown and he knew instantly that she had bitten him.

He could feel her teeth tearing into his flesh, worrying and ripping at the wound with savage jerks. He was losing consciousness fast, but he had enough brainpower to dimly recall some scene in the blockbuster hit _Jaws _and the famous one liner "we're going to need a bigger boat." Sure, there was no boat, but the statement seemed accurate enough and Dean laughed, sucking more water into his lungs and making the creature biting into him growl with savage pleasure.

Suddenly, there was a new sensation. It was pleasing and painful all at the same time. Something was gripping his hair, nearly pulling it from the roots, but whatever it was that grasped him pulled him from the claws of the monster holding him and he watched through hooded eyes as it came after him, clawing at the water and propelling itself forward with unbelievable speed.

Never going to make it, Dean thought right before he passed out. Never going to—

Dean went away for a while. He wasn't sure where he was and didn't particularly care. There was no light, but Dean didn't feel scared. It was silent and peaceful, no pain, no sorrow, no guilt. Perhaps he could have stayed in his little Fortress of Solitude forever, but somebody on the outside wouldn't let him.

Something hard pressed on his chest, once, twice, three times, but Dean remained obdurate and stayed where he was. He felt someone blowing air into his lungs, the thin membranes rising and falling without his consent. Still he stayed. The pounding on his chest, however, quickly grew incessant and there were suddenly flashes of light and sound in Dean's peaceful darkness that the young hunter instantly blamed the outside presence for. Go away, he thought sourly, just go awa—

Suddenly, Dean was no longer in his Fortress, but outside of it, gasping and coughing muddy water up from his saturated lungs. He flopped over on his side like a fish out of water and hacked the remaining fluids out on the inside of a rather beat up boat. Sam was there, he knew, he could hear his brother calling to him, chanting his name over and over again like a prayer.

Thunder clapped overhead and Dean dimly recalled the thunder in his hallucinations and realized with a start that his mind had taken bits and pieces of the surrounding world and added it to the visions in his head. There was no rain, however, and Dean thanked whatever gods would listen for that small mercy. He tried to turn back over, but his ravaged shoulder screeched in protest and Dean had to bite back a scream. The pain of it made him see stars and he wished fervently that he could pass out. He did.

He woke once more in the backseat of a pickup truck, wrapped up tightly in a blanket, with Sam's lap as a rather uncomfortable pillow. His brother wasn't looking at him, but Dean could feel his hand pressing firmly against the wound on his shoulder and he wondered why his skin felt sticky. Then he caught the coppery tang of blood in the air and he realized, with detached alarm, that his blood was everywhere. On Sam's clothes, the blanket, the door of the truck where Sam's handprint stood out starkly against the blue metal frame, the seats in front of them. Instinctively, Dean knew that whatever had bitten him in the river had probably signed his death warrant the moment it had sunk it's teeth into him. He received only the slightest satisfaction from the fact that with his escape she had been denied her meal.

"Sammy," he rasped deliriously. "Sammy, we're gonna need a bigger boat, Sammy. We've chummed the water, but now we see what we're up against. You tried to warn me, Sammy, you all tried to warn me, but I didn't listen and now I'm dying, Sammy, I'm dying. Can you believe that? Jaws took a bite out of me and I'm dying."

"What did he say," came a panicked voice from the front seat.

"Nothing," Sam replied, staring down at his brother with a mixture of sorrow and guilt. "He's mumbling, but what I can actually hear doesn't make any sense. Can't you make this thing go any faster? He's bleeding something fierce, Walt."

"I'm going as fast as I can," Walt assured him. "We'll get there in time, Sam."

"Sammy," Dean tried to say. "Sammy, _Jaws_. She was like the shark from _Jaws_, Sam! She bit and tore and—" He glanced sideways at his shoulder and swallowed past the painful lump in his throat. "Hamburger meat. I'm hamburger meat, Sammy. Pickles, mayo, ketchup, and extra onions, right, Sammy? Pickles, mayo, ketchup, onions. Pickles, mayo, ketchup, onions. Pickles, mayo, ketch—

His shoulder throbbed and he went away again. He dreamed, dreamed of the girl in the sundress and the creature she had become. He dreamed of a man with a name like a monster but the voice and touch of an angel. He saw flashes of colors and light, but none of them made sense to him and so he passed them off as part of a dream, too.

His wound suddenly erupted into a blazing inferno and Dean screamed, jerking back and away from the flames that licked his skin. Someone with an iron grip was sadistically holding him down and Dean struggled uselessly against the hold. Somebody was doing this to him. They were watching the flames consume him like he was an ant underneath a magnifying glass on a sunny day.

"Boat," he heard himself rambling from far away. "We're gonna need a bigger boat. Please, Sammy, find us a bigger boat. I…I…Jesus, jesus, please make it stop. Please make them stop, Sammy. Please…I…bigger boat, Sam. Find a bigger boat."

Somebody stuck something sharp into his wound and the pain became so unbearable that Dean felt tears slip down his cheeks, but whatever was in the little stick that had bit into him with such intensity was coursing through his bloodstream and wiping away the pains of his body as it went. Dean thought he said something about demon mermaids and aphrodisiacs, but wasn't sure, drifting into sleep before he could really come up with a definitive answer.

Dean drifted for a long time after that. He wasn't sure how long it was, but he knew that whatever time had been given to him was in short supply. He also knew that the demon mermaid, or encantado or empanada or whatever she was had been furious that she had been thwarted and robbed of her meal. She would be coming for him again. Dean knew it almost as certainly as he knew his own name. He could feel her at the edges of his mind, trying to assert control over his innermost thoughts. He truly believed that whatever drugs were being pumped into him, he was being kept doped up enough that any real thought she might have clung to only slipped through her fingers like butter.

It would only be a matter of time, however. She would be coming for him and now that he'd thoroughly pissed her off he highly doubted that she would make it easy for him. And in his weakened state, Dean knew that he would be no match for her. HE would give in easily and walk into her waiting arms willingly before she fed on his flesh and blood.

He slipped into the black once more, but this time the darkness was not welcoming. This time there were snaggle-toothed sharks gliding around him, not visible but there nonetheless. They circled him like the sharks Dean had seen on Saturday morning cartoons. He dared not move because he knew one would be there to stop him, but he also knew that if stayed where he was he would be ripped to pieces. Still, he stayed frozen where he was, eyes transfixed on the darkness to see what he could.

The woman in the yellow sundress was pounding on the door to his brain, screeching and crying as she was continually denied entrance.

"Mine," she shrieked. "You are mine!"

Yes, Dean thought dimly as one of the sharks in the darkness took a giant chunk out of him. I'm yours.

The sharks seized upon his admission in a furious battle of teeth and fin, ripping into him with relish. Yours, he thought. Yours, all yours. There was no pain for him and he felt himself slipping away with an almost detached curiosity.

Dean could hear the distant frantic screech of a heart monitor and he knew he was flat lining. The sharks had done their job well and he was amazed to find that, for the first time, there was no pain in death. He could handle that, he supposed as his heart slowed.

No pain.

No responsibility.

Nothing.

Pure and absolute. Peaceful.

His heart stopped.

Dean Winchester smiled and saw no more.


End file.
